


A La Carte

by emynii, ObliObla



Series: Nia & Obli's Whumptober 2019 [28]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Episode s02e07: My Little Monkey, Gen, Guilt, Lucifer Bingo 2019 (Lucifer TV), Religious Discussion, Self-Harm, Torture, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-01-21 02:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21292415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynii/pseuds/emynii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: “Order off menu for once. Maze and I certainly won’t judge.”For the Whumptober prompt: beatenFor the Lucifer Bingo prompt: give ‘em hell
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Nia & Obli's Whumptober 2019 [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1502000
Comments: 43
Kudos: 172
Collections: LuciferBingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. This story involves explicit torture.

“Order off menu for once. Maze and I certainly won’t judge.”

Chloe looked between Lucifer and the man tied to one of her chairs. Warden Smith was yelling behind the duct tape and pulling hard against his tight restraints. She couldn’t… could she? But the image of the first shovelful of dirt hitting the coffin lid assailed her and she jolted back to the present. To this man, who now sat in silence, pleading with his eyes as she stared.

“You took my father away. You tore apart my family.” She ripped the tape away and discovered nothing but snide excuses, empty apologies, and offers of further disloyalty. She found herself holding her firearm on him as he trembled, and some small, cruel part of her reveled in his terror. Didn’t he deserve this, after all? Didn’t he _ deserve _ to feel the fear she and her mother had felt, the fear her _ father _ had felt?

When she pulled her gun away and holstered it, he let out a quiet, relieved, “Oh.”

There were tears on her face she hadn’t felt fall.

Smith started smiling, almost certainly unconsciously, a grin that rang with conceitedness, flashing his teeth with the certainty that she wouldn’t _ really _ hurt him. That all her threats were, ultimately, empty.

Were they?

She could feel Maze’s feral glee, Lucifer’s calm constancy as they stood behind her, waiting for _ her _ judgement. She knew his words were the truth— _ always the truth, Detective _ . They would never look down on her for this, whatever she chose. No one better understood the desire for vengeance, for _ punishment _ than the Devil, right? And she may not have believed him, but in moments like this…

“I can’t do it,” she whispered, quietly enough she thought it would go unnoticed, but Lucifer heard her.

“That’s okay, Detective.” His fingers brushed her arm, not restraining her, not admonishing her, just… being there. “Whatever you desire, it’s alright.”

She bit her lip, hating the unvarnished relief that painted Smith’s face. Prison would hold torment, she knew, but how could it ever bring the pain that still lurked in her chest, waiting to overwhelm her in her sorrows, lying in ambush of her joy? How could _ anything? _

“You can’t—” She cleared her throat. “You can’t kill him.”

Smith opened his mouth to cry out, but Maze was on him in a flash, pressing the tape back to his face.

Chloe turned from them, looking up at Lucifer. There was something odd in his expression, torn between concern, bloodlust and a bone-deep determination. “A change in locale would be recommended, I think,” he mused, turning to Maze. “One of the more… _ remote _ sites, perhaps?”

Maze nodded sharply, her body language turning brusque, professional, even, as she went outside to bring her vehicle around. Lucifer walked up to Smith, ignoring his muffled shrieks and, swiftly but methodically, removed him from the chair, hogtying his arms and legs. Smith attempted to break free, but Lucifer merely shook his head as he caught a foot poised to kick, pressed wrists together hard enough the tendons creaked, all with a casual, disaffected air. Like he’d done this a million times. Like _ they’d _ done this a million times. Had they, Chloe wondered?

Did she care?

* * *

Chloe didn’t know where they were. She’d made herself not pay attention, not look out the window, her hearing focused on the quiet grunts of pain that echoed from the back of the van when the vehicle turned too sharply. Maze was alone in the front seat; Lucifer had opted to join Chloe in the middle, his self-deprecation and all the mercuriality of the last few weeks dissipating as if they had never been. His interactions with Maze, too, were different now. No argument, no conflict, only a quiet efficiency on her part and a staid command on his.

This… well, _ blacksite _ was the term that came to mind, was small, isolated, and clearly one of many. She found herself concerned, again, over her companions’ nonchalance as they extracted Smith from the vehicle, carried him inside, and restrained him in a chair clearly made for the purpose, leather straps at wrists, ankles, and several places in between. It was bolted to the ground in the center of a concrete room, complete with overhead fluorescents, a mirrored observation room, and a drain in the floor.

But she had asked for this. She was _ still _ asking for this.

Lucifer joined her in the smaller, darker room where she was watching Maze lay out a series of dangerous looking implements with delighted familiarity. He frowned at her. “I would understand if you’d rather not...” He gestured at Smith who was rocking back and forth with the desperate urge to free himself from his confines, not yet understanding that there could be no escape. “There is a soundproof chamber. You can—”

“It’s alright,” she reassured softly, laying her hand on his arm. He was tenser than she’d thought, but he calmed at her touch. “I want… He deserves…” She made herself take a deep breath. “It’s alright,” she repeated, trying to make herself believe it. Failing.

Something of her own pain was echoed in his eyes before he turned away, heading back into the light. She could never again see him as she did now, not with _ this _ laid bare before her. And he couldn’t either; her pedestal well and truly shattered.

“Hello, Perry.”

There was something cruelly ironic about the setup. Chloe watched from the observation room as Lucifer casually sat in the chair opposite Smith, propping his feet up on the table between them like he had a hundred times before in the interrogation room. Another thing Chloe could never again see without remembering this. Maze stood behind Smith, off to the side, next to her instruments.

“I know who you are, you _ asshole.” _ Smith sputtered. “How do you think you’re going to get away with this?”

Lucifer chuckled. “What makes you think you’ll be in any condition to snitch, my dear?”

“She said… you couldn’t… kill…” Smith panted.

“Oh, we’re not going to _ kill _ you,” Lucifer said idly, adjusting the ring on his finger.

“Then—?”

“What’s that rule, Mazikeen? Show don’t tell? Well…” He steepled his fingers together, watching Smith with what Chloe was certain from the angle of his shoulders was unmitigated glee. “Mustn’t let you down, now.”

* * *

Chloe now knew how much blood could be spilled before death came. Knew that heat would loosen the skin in anticipation of a flaying. Knew that fire could be used afterward to staunch the bleeding, that a pulling motion rather than a yanking one kept the nerves from being severed, kept the pain coming. Understood truly that soft touches and quiet whispers were as important as knives and flames in maintaining the intensity of the torture. Maze carried out Lucifer’s instructions with a steady hand as he admonished and comforted Smith in turn.

“The proper punishment for a hypocrite, you see, is to have all their affectations burned away,” Lucifer had casually proclaimed as Maze ran a lit torch over Smith’s limbs and across his chest and stomach, raising angry blisters. She’d licked her lips and Lucifer had stood, stepped around the table where they had eventually moved Smith when the chair had become unwieldy, and smiled genuinely before continuing, “Then, of course, the skin may be peeled away just as surely as dishonestly will be stripped from your bones.”

Smith had shouted an incomprehensible word at the first long, careful incision from the corner of his eye to his nipple and Lucifer had laughed. “Be as loud as you like, darling.” He leaned closer to murmur in his ear. “Love me a screamer.”

They’d reached a crossroads, then, when the injuries were likely to change from survivable to less so. Chloe had told Lucifer they couldn’t kill him, and now he looked up at her, meeting her eyes though he shouldn’t have been able to see her. He held up his hand, and Maze lowered her knife, waiting. There was a question in his gaze, and she answered it with the slightest nod. She’d known from the beginning, somewhere deep down, that he couldn’t be allowed to recover. There was too much at stake. _ This _was what she’d wanted. The idea Smith might survive was only a pleasant fiction for both of them.

Or, at least, for her. She wasn’t certain he cared.

When the first strips of skin were removed, blood pooled on the table and dripped down in glistening sheets onto the concrete. Pale skin gave way to exposed red muscle as an hour passed, then two. After three, Smith no longer had the energy to make a sound, to shrink away from Maze’s blades or Lucifer’s caresses. He fell, for the hundredth time, into semi-consciousness but Lucifer caught at his raw shoulder and pulled him from the edge.

“Oh, _ no no no,” _ he said with honest concern. “None of _ that, _ now. You need to _ feel _ this pain, not escape to the dreaming. His fingers dug deeper into the flesh and Smith jolted. “There we are,” he whispered. “You can’t hide from me, you know. Even in death, Perry Smith, there will be no respite.”

He turned away from the mirror with an odd deliberateness, gazing down at Smith, who suddenly jerked, a long, raw shriek that sputtered out into a gurgling whine escaping his throat. 

“You...you…” he gasped. “Oh, Jesus… oh, _ God…” _

“I’m neither,” Lucifer said coldly. “Don’t waste your breath on them. They won’t save you.” He pulled away, and, when Chloe saw his face, she almost expected something other than pale skin to greet her. She shook herself from her strange thoughts. It was the trauma, probably, though she didn’t feel as broken by this as she felt she should.

He eyed Smith critically. “You know, I think there’s something missing. Oh! I know.” He slid his fingers along the table where it was coated in blood and pressed his bloodied fingertips against Smith’s eyes, holding the lids open to smear red across the irises. A strange expression flitted across his face faster than she could comprehend and he cleared his throat. “There,” he pronounced, like he was critiquing an art exhibition.

“Perfect.”

* * *

Chloe wouldn’t let herself throw up, but she ended up on her knees, breathing heavily.

“Detect… _ Chloe,” _ Lucifer said softly in the doorway. They had cleaned up, themselves and the room, and Maze had taken Smith… somewhere. Chloe didn’t care. She wondered if she should. Lucifer wasn’t moving closer. Wasn’t moving at all.

Why was he…?

“I can call you a car.”

_ What, to this MI6 blacksite in the California desert at three am? _

“Whatever is… easier.”

Oh. He was afraid. _ He _ was afraid. Afraid of her, of her reaction, as if the nausea burning heavy in her stomach was _ his _ fault. She dragged herself up to stand and half collapsed into his arms. He was staring at her like she’d lost her mind, she was certain. She could almost hear it, could almost feel his disbelief.

“What have I done?” she whispered against his chest.

He stiffened, then pulled her away to meet her gaze. “You mustn’t think like that, darling. Every killer must be punished. Every—” He took a harsh breath. “I’ll take you home, shall I?”

She nodded numbly.

* * *

Chloe really did throw up, once she was free of Lucifer’s concerned and suffocating gaze, kneeling on the ground in front of her toilet. Why had she said _ yes? _ Why didn’t she stop them? She could have. They would have stopped in an instant at her word, but she’d wanted Smith to suffer. She still thought he’d deserved it, all of it. She slumped to the tiles, leaning back against the bathtub.

She’d known Smith was dead the moment she’d agreed to the torture. Known as she nodded her head that his death was on her hands, no matter who had wielded the knives. And yet her guilt wasn’t for what she’d done, not really. No, she felt guilty for her _ lack _ of guilt and for the terrible look of fear on Lucifer’s face. The fear that he’d lost her.

And shouldn’t he have? Shouldn’t she be afraid of what he’d done, of his casual manner in doing it? Of Maze’s near ecstasy? Of the comfortable way they both had that spoke not only of experience but also of enjoyment, almost of pride?

She knew he was a criminal, knew he wasn’t what any normal person would be willing to call _ good. _ And, whatever she said or pretended, she also knew, at least in these quiet moments when she was honest with herself, that he was far worse than all of that, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Maze, who’d she just seen lick blood off a shining blade, had babysat Trixie last week, and _ still _ she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Maybe _ she _ was the bad person, the evil one, allowing these beings to invade all her light with their endless night, though she knew just as well as she knew she was John Decker’s daughter that the darkness had always been within her, just waiting for a deeper fire to come and stoke it.

She dragged herself off the floor, pushed open the door to the bedroom. Lucifer was sitting on the edge of her bed—she’d made him promise not to leave, had felt his bewildered expression like one of Maze’s knives between her ribs.

She sat next to him, and he gave her that look again, gave her another blade to carve into all her soft parts, if they even still existed. If they ever had. She knew he could wield the knife, now, knew he had. Like it was nothing. She wondered where he’d learned it, where Maze had, not just the techniques but the casualness, the numbness. The efficiency that spoke not just of familiarity but of _ intimacy. _

“I can leave,” Lucifer said softly, carefully, as if he were the monster and she were the maiden. As if they weren’t both monsters.

“Stay, _ please.” _

He nodded and dared to wrap an arm lightly around her shoulders. His hand was shaking. The darkness slowly turned to pre-dawn light, and she knew she’d have to wipe away what remained of her tears and paint her face with a nobler purpose. She still had work in a few hours, after all.

She wasn’t the one who’d been hurt, who’d had her skin stripped away and her flesh burned, whose eyes had been stained with sanguine truth. But she felt beaten, battered, like there was nothing left to her but tender bruise. And yet all her softness had turned jagged. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Do you _ want _me to regret it?” She sounded so bitter, but she couldn't lighten her tone.

He hissed in a breath. “Don’t you?”

She shook her head roughly and pressed closer. “I should. I don’t.”

“Detective…”

“I’m glad he can’t hurt anyone else, anymore.” She looked at him sharply. “You thought I would, though. _ And _that I wouldn’t want anything to do with you after.”

He didn’t deny it, though she could tell from the tension in his jaw that he wanted to.

“Why’d you still do it?”

He frowned. “It was what you desired.”

“Yeah, but—”

“You deserved to have the choice. Who knows what your legal system might’ve done with such a man? _ We _ ensured he’d be punished properly.”

“Yeah.” She bit her lip. “Yeah, you did. I-I used to believe in the system so strongly. But now...”

There were tears falling again, and she let them come. Lucifer sighed and pulled her into his arms, simply being there.

She sniffed. “A man spent fifteen years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. And Perry got away with all of it, still might have. Because he knew how to work a system I _ know _ is corrupt.”

She felt his fingers in her hair, and she pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It steadied her, and she looked back up at him.

“I want to do the right thing, but… I don’t think I know what that is anymore.”

The sun came up; neither of them moved, simply watching the light as it spread across the carpet. But it was still dark on the bed. 

Lucifer cleared his throat, and his fingers tightened for a moment against her. “My Father is a right bastard at the best of times, but yours—” He inhaled sharply. “He seemed like a man who would do what was right and damn the consequences.”

She nodded. “Y-yeah.” She’d never known he was investigating corruption, had never known he didn’t just keep his head down and do his job. He’d always told her to trust in the system, but now... How different might she have been, might she have _ let _ herself be had she known?

That little disobedient streak that had helped her push past the slut shaming and boob jokes, that had led her to Palmetto, that had led her to _ Lucifer… _ Was _ that _ what she had really inherited from her dad?

Lucifer interrupted her racing thoughts, brushing a strand of hair back from her face like he wasn’t sure he should be doing it. “What I’m trying to say is… I think he would be proud of you.”

And everything stopped, just for a moment, just long enough for her cheeks to burn and her eyes to prick with further tears.

Worry filled his gaze. “My apologies, Detective, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

And he had, and he _ was, _ pushing at all her bruises, digging into her harshness, finding where she might still be soft, making her feel the pressure there. But it was a good pain, and she almost wanted to thank him for it. “No, it’s…”

“Then why are you crying?” And, _ oh, _ did that grab at her heartstrings and yank them tight, care in his voice she was beginning to believe she didn’t deserve; but she _ wanted _ to.

“Lucifer,” she whispered.

“Yes, Detective?” he asked.

“Shut up.” And it was the easiest thing in the world to lean up and press her lips to his, to muffle his kindness with her passion until the warmth and steadiness of his kiss covered her head like water, pulling her under.

What was baptism, after all, but being drowned in holiness.

He pulled away, panting. “What are you doing?”

“I…” She didn’t know how to explain except that this was the only thing that felt _ right. _ But, _ “Please,” _ was all she could manage. And she _ was _ pleading, was begging, was down on her knees praying as if she could find absolution in the heat of his mouth, in the motions of his chest as she reached for the buttons on his shirt.

He caught her hands in his. “Detective, you don’t—”

“I do. I want this. I want…” She wanted everything to make sense, but she knew she couldn’t have that. Maybe could never have that. She saw the blood on Lucifer’s hands, the grin on his face, the glee and the sorrow and the fear in his eyes. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I want _ you.” _

But he was shaking his head, standing up, pulling away. She rose with him, clinging to his shirtfront, and he took her by the shoulders, pressing her back to the bed.

She gasped softly. “Lucifer…”

_ “No, _Detective.” His voice shook. “I-I have to go. I’ll... see you at work.”

He closed the door quietly behind him, but he might as well have slammed it. She stared at the grain of the wood before adrenaline forced her to her feet, back into the bathroom, yanking at the faucet in the bathtub, turning on the shower. She stripped off almost violently, the wrong hands pulling off her shirt and tugging down her pants. 

She stepped into the shower and hissed at the heat, but she didn’t turn the temperature down, merely pressed her forehead against the cooler tiles. The water slipped down her skin almost like fingertips, like the burning kisses she’d thought might meet all of her rough edges and wear them smooth. But he knew better now. He knew she wasn’t better than him, better than anyone. Whatever he’d wanted from her was gone. Maybe had never existed. And maybe he’d never truly cared.

She sighed and grabbed the shampoo, forcing her head under the spray long enough to wet her hair. She worked up a lather and shut her eyes. He’d promised he wouldn't judge her, yet there he was, fleeing from her... from the darkness in her soul.

She wondered if he’d thought she would be his salvation, not seeing _ her, _ just what he wanted from her. Punishment or forgiveness—but now he knew she couldn’t offer him anything. They were both, ultimately, in the gutter.

She rinsed her hair mechanically, grabbing conditioner, unable to keep her thoughts from racing. She had abandoned every principle she had for a moment of revenge. There would be no justice for Smith’s other victims. No one would ever know he was corrupt. He may have been dead or dying, but his reputation would live on. Without someone pushing his case—finding _ evidence_—innocent people may still have been languishing in prison.

And it was all her fault.

Her skin itched, and she abandoned her hair for her body wash and loofah. As she started to scrub, the suds collected at the drain, swirling around it before disappearing, but her sins weren’t so easy to wash away. There had been no blood on her hands, and yet she could feel it, hot and cloying, staining her skin in a way that felt permanent. And _ still _ she didn’t feel guilty, not really. She was still glad Smith was dead, would be glad to see him burn in the Hell she wished she believed in.

What kind of a person did that make her?

Lucifer had said her father would be proud of her. And in the moment, it was what she wanted to hear. But now, alone, away from his quiet reassurance that had so comforted her, she wondered. Would he be? If her dad knew she had a man tortured to almost certain death, would he be proud of her? Or would he give her that disappointed look he reserved for the time she was caught cheating on a test, or trying to sneak out of the house. Or would it be worse than that? Would he look at her at all?

She scrubbed harder, and her skin stung, but she kept at it. The pain brought her out of her thoughts, at least for the moment. Blood started to mingle with the bubbles in the drain. Washed away, like Smith had been, like the crimson Lucifer had painted over his eyes.

She dropped the loofah, leaning back into the tiles. She was such a coward. Couldn’t even get her own goddamn hands dirty, had to let someone else slice and burn and _ inflict _ while she pretended she was better than they were. Lucifer may have had her on a pedestal, but she’d done half the work, had _ liked _ how he looked at her. Like she was so _ good _that he was somehow unworthy.

She stared down at her pristine hands.

The jolt of the impact against the tiles shot down her arm, into her shoulder. She hit the wall again, feeling skin tear on her knuckles. Again, and blood welled up, began dripping down her fingers. Again, and the wall was stained pink. Though it lasted only for a moment before the spray washed it down the drain with everything else.

Her hands trembled, and she swayed for a moment, turning the water off and stumbling from the bathtub. She grabbed for a towel and scraped her raw knuckles against it, crying out from the pain but glad that something, _ finally _ had been marred by her presence.

She dried herself quickly, wrapping her hair up in a towel, trying not to meet her own gaze in the fogged up mirror. She got dressed and applied neosporin to her fingers, wishing she didn’t relish the ache in them still. She made herself look in the mirror long enough to make up her face, refusing to think about the shadows under her eyes. She blow dried her hair, styled it, all while her ears rang with emptiness, and her head pounded with thoughts she couldn’t let herself think.

When she was done, pulling gloves on, wincing slightly, she looked exactly like she always did—a performance she liked to pretend wasn’t one. She didn’t look at all like she’d had a man tortured near to death the night before, like she’d been rejected by the only thing in her life that made any sense. She tried a smile; it looked so genuine some part of her was disturbed.

_ The proper punishment for a hypocrite is to have all their affectations burned away, _ Lucifer had said.

So why weren’t they?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything seems like it's falling apart. But the planet still turns, the day has still come, and now Chloe sits at her desk, wondering if anyone can see the mark of her sins.

Chloe sat at her desk, wondering if anyone could see the mark of her sins. But no one even looked at her, simply going about their day as if there wasn’t a monster in their midst. She stared into her tepid coffee; there always had been, and no one ever noticed.

Dan sighed as he put the phone down, glancing over at her for the first time. “Uh, Chlo, we… found Perry Smith.”

“Oh, um, where did you find him?” she breathed, not quite able to make eye contact. Something was shattering under her ribs.

“At a, ah, hospital sometime early this morning.”

She nodded numbly. She recognized vaguely that this wasn’t the way she was supposed to be reacting, but she couldn’t make herself do anything else. Her mind buzzed, her heart pounded and she felt her soul sink into her feet.

Dan looked at her strangely. “The doctors say he’s in really bad shape. He's on life support at the moment, but they don't think he'll survive more than a few days. Someone—” He hissed in a breath. “Someone skinned him alive."

The buzzing in her head was growing louder, and the edges of her vision were whiting out, and she wasn’t able to get her limbs to cooperate. “Oh… That’s…” 

Her heart was beating in her ears even more strongly, now, loud enough she couldn’t hear what Dan was saying. It thudded in her chest, quicker and quicker, and louder and louder. Surely Dan could hear it, it was so loud. He frowned. Did he know? Did he…?

_ Louder! Louder! Louder! _

She stood up, barely hearing the impact of her chair against the desk opposite. “I, ah, I have to—“ She turned and walked away, the thud of her footsteps like the thud of her heart. Louder. _ Louder… _

_ Even in death, Perry Smith, there will be no respite. _

She found herself in a storage closet, sitting on a box of office supplies, rocking back and forth, hands clutching at her face, fingers tanging in her hair.

Some part of her had started to believe it had all been a nightmare. The dreaming, Lucifer had said, right? _ You need to feel this pain. _ The room with white walls, the demon, the Devil, the man strapped to a table—some sort of low budget movie her mom might've starred in back in the ‘80s. But Smith was real, he was alive, and he was soon not to be.

Chloe wasn't afraid they'd get caught—she didn't trust much, now, but she trusted that Maze and Lucifer were professionals, of some kind. She knew that she could live the rest of her life without anyone but them ever knowing what had happened. But could she stand it? Could she stand the images of blood pouring in sheets from the table, of flames licking raw flesh, of Maze's gleeful laughter, of Lucifer's crooning words almost like those of a lover? And hadn’t she, last night, tried to...

_ Louder! Louder! Louder! _

She dove for a bucket that had been wedged under a table, barely managing to get it close enough before she was vomiting into its depths. She wished it felt like a true purge, like something was being cleansed. But it only filled her mouth with gall and bitter coffee. It only left her muffling her coughs as they turned to sobs.

She heard a gentle knock on the door and didn't even have the energy to pull her forehead away from the slightly jagged rim of the bucket.

"Detective, are you...? Can I come in?"

She gulped back some air and wiped at her face. She should have been horrified that the monster was at the door, shouldn’t she? But she knew the real monster had been inside all along. And no matter what he’d done, no matter what _ she’d _ done, he still felt safer than everything else. "Y-yes."

Her heart clenched with relief when Lucifer stepped inside, and the assurance she felt echoed as pain through her body until she was shivering, clinging to the bucket like it was all she had left. She almost wished for disappointment in his eyes, or fear, or even revulsion, but there was nothing but concern and sorrow. What did it mean that his presence was still so comforting?

“I heard…” He sighed. “I assure you there will be no consequences from the police.”

The qualifier seemed strange, but her head was pounding again, and she only spat into the depths of the bucket in response.

“Detective, I’m so—”

“No,” she said roughly. She glared up at him. “You don’t get to— I _ chose _ this!”

His jaw clenched. “You think I don’t understand regret?”

“I told you I don’t regret it.”

He nodded, his eyes darting down to the bucket she clung to. “You still believe that?”

“I’m—” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He raised his hands placatingly, then pulled a pure white handkerchief from an inner pocket, holding it out.

She took it, but when their fingers touched, she remembered the heat of his mouth under hers, the coldness with which he’d pulled away. Anger was so much easier than everything else. “Why are you even here?” she asked bitterly.

He blinked. “Beg pardon?”

She scoffed. “After you… After _ we…” _ She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You don’t have to pretend you want to see me.”

He frowned. “I’m your partner.”

She dropped the bucket and buried her face in her hands. “I just can’t do this right now. Leave, _ please?” _ She didn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but questions seemed to be all she had left.

He let out a shaky breath. “Okay, just…” But if he finished the sentence, she didn’t hear it over the sound of the door opening and closing.

And she was alone again. But it wasn’t more than two minutes of staring into the bucket, choking back dry heaves, before there was another knock. “Chlo?” 

She sniffed, stood up, and glanced back at the soiled bucket. She could do this. She could _ do _ this.

Dan opened the door. 

She couldn’t do this. A tear slipped down her cheek. Her face was numb.

“Chlo…” Dan said, almost apologetically. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “I know it’s… horrifying, but—”

“Could you… tell the lieutenant I-I just…” But the words wouldn’t come.

“Of course,” he said. There was a pause before he cleared his throat, trying at reassurance. “I guess if anyone deserved—”

“You don’t believe that,” she said automatically. But did _ she? _

“Maybe not,” he conceded, “but sometimes I wish I did. Are you… alright?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, badly. She shook her head when Dan frowned. “Okay, I’m not fine, but I just— I need to get out of here.” She stumbled past him, then, remembering, turned around to go back for the bucket.

“I’ll deal with that,” Dan told her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Just go home, Chlo.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll... do that.”

She managed to make it back downstairs and to her desk, got her things together, and left. Lucifer, it seemed, had already gone. She was glad for it.

She _ was._

* * *

Chloe turned the key in the lock, already feeling some measure of relief. She was home, now. She knew she couldn’t hide from everything forever, but maybe today would be enough. It had to be.

“‘Sup, Decker,” Maze said casually from the kitchen bar, sharpening a knife.

Chloe blinked. How could she have forgotten about the _ other _ participator in the flaying of Warden Smith? She saw Maze, arms slicked in blood up to the elbows, grinning and laughing, looking more at home than Chloe had ever seen her. She stammered. “H-hey, Maze…” She needed to get out of here _ now. _ She made to turn around, to leave, to go… somewhere, when Maze spoke again.

“Thought you were working.”

She stared at a spot on the cabinets past Maze. “They… sent me home.”

“Cool.” Maze dropped the knife, putting her full attention on Chloe, and she barely managed to suppress her shiver. She’d always known Maze was dangerous, of course. Concerningly handy with a knife, friendly with vicious criminals, with a casual disregard for… pretty much everyone. But she couldn’t make herself ignore that anymore

Maze jumped up, walked over, and clapped Chloe on the back. She flinched, but Maze didn’t seem to notice as she flopped onto the couch. “Good on you for being cool with everything, by the way.”

“Cool with…?”

Maze shrugged a shoulder, reaching for the remote. “First times can be... hard.” She turned on something bright and trashy and chuckled darkly. “Some of the younger spawn used to lose their guts the first time a knife was put in their hand and they were told to go slow.”

Chloe stared at her for a second. “Okay, what the hell?”

Maze snorted and tossed the remote onto the coffee table. “What?” she asked flippantly.

But Chloe was shaking her head. “Look, I know you, like, pretend… for Lucifer… that you’re a demon, and I get that—”

“What are you talking about?” Maze asked, standing up, but Chloe was brave in her confusion.

"Seriously, just— I won't tell Lucifer you told me. But I have to know, Maze."

Maze tilted her head. "Know what?"

"Who _ are _you?" Chloe laughed a little hysterically. "Where do you learn something like...something like...?"

"Hell," Maze said flatly.

"But..."

Maze raised a scarred eyebrow.

“Hell doesn’t _ actually _ exist, Maze! So, what, is that, like, a nickname for some MI6 site? Like a British version of Gitmo?"

Maze shook her head roughly."I've told you this before. _ Lucifer _ has told you this before. I don't know what answer you're looking for that will make you _ feel _better, or whatever, but that's the truth."

Chloe opened her mouth to say... something. She wasn't sure what in this moment other than she _ needed _Maze to open up.

Maze rolled her eyes. “Look, when you stop being weird about this, call me or knock or something.” She stomped to her door, threw it open, and slammed it behind her.

A demon. The _ Devil. _ But how was Chloe supposed to believe any of this? _ Gather evidence, _ a voice whispered in her mind. _ You’re a detective; you figure it out. _

She thought she might even know where to start.

* * *

MI6, CIA, Mafia—the mantra kept echoing in Chloe’s mind. She needed to know; she needed to _ understand. _ Surely everything would make sense once she knew.

She’d done some cursory research when they’d first met, but then she’d been drawn into maelstrom Lucifer and she’d forgotten. She’d thrown away his blood, had told him she didn’t think he was the Devil, but didn’t think he was crazy. She’d needed the eggs. She always had. She was willing to accept the boost to her success rate in exchange for not looking too closely. Murderers got caught, and that was all that mattered.

Right?

But now she was too close. She’d gone too far. She had to know what it meant that all these contradictions could be true. He was a puzzle she _ had _ to solve, now. They both were. She couldn’t rest until she knew, because once she _ knew... _everything would make sense. Everything would fit together.

She didn’t want to return to the precinct where she might have to explain why she was there, but she didn’t want to stay anywhere near Maze, either. Not when any thought of her led only to visions as vivid as reality of Smith staring at her and Lucifer in horror, flesh cut away, eyes painted red with blood. Thank _ god _ Trixie was with Dan this week.

Instead, she grabbed her laptop and the notes she’d made when she met Lucifer—the ones she’d brought home with her to work on while she was out on medical leave after being shot—and headed to a diner her dad used to take her to. The pungent, warm odor of coffee beans and the thin layer of grease over everything made her feel a little more stable, a little more capable of unraveling this mystery.

Who _ were _ they?

After ordering a cup of coffee and a short stack, she pulled up her browser and stared at the blinking cursor. Typing _ Lucifer _into Google would be close to useless. She’d tried it before and laughed at herself when she’d gotten exactly what she should have expected. She hummed and reached for the keys.

_ “Mazikeen Smith” _

The name Maze had put on the lease; as sketchy as it seemed, the background check had gone through fine. But there was nothing. She dropped the ‘Smith’ part, finding little more than a few idle references to Lux and, generally, Maze’s various sexual proclivities. Chloe was beginning to give up hope until, a few pages in, she stumbled across an html page from the early 90s for some university she’d never heard of. It was divorced from whatever context it’d had, but included a contentious argument between what were apparently Talmudic scholars about the appropriate derivation of a Hebrew word, a class of demons they spelled _ mazzikim. _

One seemed convinced the term was derived from a word that meant _ spark _ while another berated the first repeatedly for such an apparently foolish theory, instead connecting it to a word that meant _ damagers. _ Or _ pests. _

Chloe snorted. They weren’t wrong. But then she remembered the way Maze had laid out her tools, professionally, _ delightedly, _ even, and nausea rose again.

She stared at the pancakes and pushed them away. She turned back to the laptop and picked up her mug.

_ “Lucifer Morningstar” _

The first few pages were links to his various social media accounts, reviews and references to Lux, and tabloid articles from _ TMZ _ and _ TFF!. _ She clicked on a few at random but learned nothing new and certainly nothing substantial. Lucifer Morningstar always wore the best clothes. Lucifer Morningstar was always invited to the best parties. Lucifer Morningstar would be glad to give you the _ best night of your life™. _

No, ‘Lucifer Morningstar can identify injuries based on sound and blood origin based on taste.’

No, ‘Lucifer Morningstar enjoys lifting grown men one handed and throwing them across rooms.’

And certainly no, ‘Lucifer Morningstar is incredibly familiar with common torture techniques and methods of psychological manipulation.’

But as she ventured deeper and deeper into her Google search results, things got _ weird. _ She started to find forums on questionable websites with questionable sources. But the stories they told...

‘Lucifer Morningstar paid for my mother’s cancer treatments..’

‘Lucifer Morningstar bought me a car.’

‘Lucifer Morningstar got me a job in Hollywood.’

But for every one of these, there was a different, more horrifying story.

‘Lucifer Morningstar drove my boyfriend crazy.’ She saw Jimmy Barnes in her mind’s eye. _ He’s the Devil. He’s the Devil. _

‘Lucifer Morningstar threw me off my balcony.’ She saw Joe Hanson, flying through a window. Saw herself, watching the footage over and over, finding nothing.

‘Lucifer Morningstar and his woman tortured me.’ She saw Warden Smith, flayed, burned, and screaming.

But all of that was unsubstantiated, and Chloe had no interest in taking it to cyber and trying to pull IP addresses, if such a thing could even be done without alerting anyone. _ And doesn’t Lucifer own Monroe? _ her mind whispered. She’d _ watched _ him buy her boss and hadn’t done a damn thing. She shook her head and shut her laptop.

She knew he’d never been charged with anything, but surely he’d been brought in for _ something. _ And maybe, like so much else he did, it just never made it into official reports. But someone knew. Someone _ had _to know, and Chloe thought she might know who to ask.

* * *

Officer Dickinson had been on the force thirty years, and had never even tried to make detective. Her record was impeccable, barring the time she released Nick Hofmeister into Lucifer’s custody; but no one ever really blamed her for _ that. _ She was quietly efficient, but she seemed, to all outward appearance, perfectly content riding a desk all the way to retirement. _ It's safer, _ was all she might say, if pressed. _ I'm happy here, _ she might add, if you brought her a couple donuts and a cup of coffee better than the office machine could ever make.

Not one particularly liked Dickinson, but no one hated her, either. And everyone knew there was no better potential source of gossip. Nothing that happened in the precinct got past her; the trick was getting her to share.

But Chloe had a secret weapon. Well, two, really. Almond bear claws from Emiliano’s in Los Feliz and a hazelnut-caramel latte from the coffee shop down the street from the precinct. Extra whip. The precinct was quiet; only the evening crew was left.

“Thank you, dear,” Dickinson said from her desk under the stairs. Most cops hated that spot—mind, most cops hated desk duty in general—but Dickinson was also perfectly situated near the break room. She heard all, it was said, and it was this quality Chloe was hoping to exploit.

“I wanted to ask—”

She sighed. “They always do.”

“—about L-lucifer?”

“Oh, Lucifer!” she said brightly, and all of her reticence fell away. “Such a nice man. What do you want to know?”

There was a strange fervor in her eyes, and Chloe recognized it. Whatever _ thing _ Lucifer did to people had apparently stuck. Hard. Some part of her felt gross for taking advantage of whatever it was, but she _ had _ to know. And hadn’t she used it before?

“Was Lucifer ever questioned in relation to a case before, ah, Delilah?” She was amazed at how steady her voice was, even though everything inside was still steadily breaking apart.

Dickinson hummed. “Well, there was that one young man who unis picked up outside that nightclub of his. Raving about how the Devil was going to burn his soul in a lake of fire and brimstone unless he confessed to trying to roofie that poor girl."

Chloe stared.

"And, of course," Dickinson continued, warming to her theme, "that dust up with the cartels."

"Which ones?"

"Oh, all of them. Hm. There _ were _some claims about the selling of illegal substances out of that club, as well as various other services being offered, but the investigations never went anywhere."

Chloe could just see some uncover Vice agent being entirely swayed by the charms of Lux and its even more charming owner. Lucifer’s leering face was suddenly transposed over his rapt one as he painted blood on Smith’s eyes, and Chloe choked back yet more vomit. “Um,” she wheezed. “Anything else?”

"Well…” Dickinson frowned. “There _ was _that one murder."

Chloe's heart clenched.

"He wasn't _ involved, _ of course, but if I recall his... bartender... woman was caught at the scene. That case was a _ mess, _ I'm here to say. No prosecutions ultimately. But I'm sure neither of them had anything to do with it."

As Dickinson continued to ponder, apparently unperturbed by the stories she seemed to have a never ending supply of, Chloe took a step back and a deep breath.

So she knew now what she’d only suspected before, back when she’d had distance, back when she’d _ cared _ . Lucifer _ was _ some kind of criminal. But what she’d seen in that blacksite wasn’t just the actions of a couple of petty criminals. There was still so much she didn’t know. She steeled herself for her second question. “Has he ever talked about where he lived before?”

She laughed. “You mean Hell?”

Chloe forced a smile on her face. “Right, Hell. Seriously, though.”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s really _ nothing _ from before 2011?”

Dickinson shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

So Chloe was—probably—right in her initial research. “But he can’t have just come out of nowhere,” she muttered to herself, already turning away. “So where did his papers come from?”

“Well, he _ probably _ went to Palmer,” Dickinson said from behind her.

She spun around. “What?”

“Neil Palmer? You know, the forger? The we’ve-been-trying-to-get-him-for-years-but-never-had-quite-enough-evidence forger?”

Did no one tell Chloe anything?

“And he’s good?” she asked, biting back bitterness and hope.

“The best. That’s why we want him so bad. I mean”—she lowered her voice to a stage whisper—”even Graham went to him after all of those awful things went down.”

That was a freakout and a half, but Chloe pushed it down. “D-do you know where he lives?”

She nodded. “I’ll get you his details.”

“Thanks, Dickinson.”

“Any time you want to talk about Lucifer,” she said lightly, turning back to her paperwork. “Say hi from me, will you?”

Chloe wondered, as she left the precinct again, keeping her head down lest Dan pop back in suddenly, if Dickinson would still be so enthusiastic if she knew what Lucifer had really done. But, finally, she had a name. Neil Palmer, who Malcolm had gone to for a new identity. Neil Palmer, who _ Lucifer _ had gone to for a new identity.

All she had to do to uncover all his secrets was find Palmer.

* * *

Palmer & Sons was a dour place, even for a funeral home. Thank God, or… someone that Chloe didn’t accidentally interrupt a funeral. The place was, in fact, empty except for its owner. He was arranging flowers on a side table when she walked in.

“Neil Palmer?”

“Yeah?” he asked, turning around.

She pulled out her badge. “I’m Detective Chloe Decker, and I have some questions about your business.”

He started sweating noticeably, but his expression remained carefully blank. “Of course, Detective. What do you need to know?”

“What were the circumstances in which you procured Lucifer Morningstar a new identity?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I know about your side business, Neil,” she said with bravado she didn’t feel. “We’ve been building a case for years. You might as well tell me.”

He raised his chin and turned to a stack of guestbooks. "I have no reason to speak with you unless you need to plan a funeral."

She took a deep breath; it was getting harder to hold in all her broken pieces. And she _ tried _to stick to her plan and her training, to treat this like any other interrogation, but instead she blurted out the words echoing in her mind. "It's your fault."

"Excuse me?" he asked, turning back.

"You're the reason he took her,” she said, giving into those guilty little voices in her head.

He frowned. "Mr. Morningstar took someone?"

Some part of Chloe recognized that she could redirect the conversation, could get this interrogation back on track, but the words spilled from her lips like vomit into the depths of a plastic bucket. She shook her head. ”Malcolm. You're the reason Malcolm took Trixie. _ You're _the reason he took my little girl!”

Her voice ended on a shout; she was shaking, shivering, and she couldn’t stop.

Palmer’s face paled. "I don't—"

"He wanted a new identity. He needed money. He took _ her _ to get money for _ you." _

"I..."

_ God, _ it was so much easier to just blame someone else for all her conflicted feelings. To take all the gall in her mouth and pour it out. “So you...you _ owe _ me. You owe me for that.”

“I don’t—” He inhaled sharply, and guilt slipped over his face. “What does any of this have to do with Mr. Morningstar?” he asked quietly.

“He bought his identity from you.”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

Palmer blinked. “Who was he?” he repeated in an increasingly reedy voice.

“Yes!” Chloe crowed, and she realized she was looming over Palmer, now, as he cringed backward, but the words were still coming. “Before he changed his name.”

“I don’t know.”

She snarled, frustrated, and Palmer jumped. She ignored him, ignored everything but the questions. If she got answers, everything would make sense. Everything _ had _ to make sense. “What _ do _ you know?”

Palmer sputtered, “He-he came in with that woman, paid me the hundred K for both of them so they were all legal, and then vanished. I didn't see either of them for years after that. As far as I know he came out of the ground fully formed."

“You don’t have _ anything. _ An original name? Where he was born?”

He shook his head. “I’ve learned to not ask questions.”

"But..."

"Sorry, miss. I-I really am. For...for everything."

* * *

Chloe was walking, the pounding of her feet on the pavement like the pounding of her heart.

_ Louder! Louder! Louder! _

She didn’t know what to do, nor where to go. She could admit that to herself now. All her questions had led only to yet more questions. And even if she found answers, how were they supposed to alleviate the guilt that flowed through her veins, poisoning her with every beat of her heart? She froze when she realized where she’d ended up.

Father Frank’s church. Or what _ had _ been his church.

She wasn't sure why she walked through the doors except that she couldn't think of anywhere else to go. She wanted absolution, or punishment. Maybe they were the same thing in the end. This church was a place of bloodshed. It seemed, somehow, appropriate. The place where Father Frank had died, where Lucifer had wanted to hurt someone, and she had stopped him. When she still thought she knew what the right answer was, when someone she loved was killed.

She stood in the entryway, and a man in priest’s vestments she didn’t recognize came up to her. He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him before he could. She wasn’t sure she could hear any more words of comfort without breaking.

“Is, uh…? I think I need to… confess something.”

The priest nodded and gestured toward the confessional. “Is this alright? Or we have a larger room if you’d prefer?”

“This is fine,” she said quickly. She wasn’t sure she could say what she needed to if anyone could see her.

She slipped into the booth, feeling awkward sitting in the small, cramped room. The pomp of Catholicism always made her uncomfortable, like she, with her SoCal attitudes and her bleached blonde hair, wasn't worthy of that many centuries of ritual. None of the churches her mom had ever taken her to were so old-fashioned. She cleared her throat. "I, uh, don't really know how these go. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned..." 

What a deadly word was sin? What truths hid inside of it?

Her heart was still beating loud in the silence. "It's been... I've never been to confession. I-I don't even know where to start."

“You can start wherever feels best,” the priest said in a calming, understanding voice. Would he still sound so understanding if he knew?

She meant to speak, she did, but every time she opened her mouth nothing came out but short, shallow breaths.

“You still with me?” he asked after a few minutes. 

“I...” She sighed. “I thought I was a good person.”

He made a sound of acknowledgement, but said nothing, and she was glad for it.

“Yesterday, I did something. Out of anger, and fear, and-and because...”

“Because?” he asked, when she didn’t continue.

“Because I wanted to,” she said in a small voice. “I wanted him to suffer.”

There was a rustling as the priest readjusted his seating, or maybe nodded. Was this the worst thing he’d ever heard? Probably not. She well knew what depths of depravity people could sink to; she’d just never thought she was one of _ them. _ “We don’t have to be defined by a single moment,” he said eventually, voice measured. “We are not our worst selves.”

“Aren’t we?” Crime scenes flitted across her vision—blood smeared, furniture broken, bodies with gunshots or stab wounds or just so many bruises. She saw the perpetrators, many who had committed no other crime. She’d judged _ them _by their worst selves, and she had felt it was right.

She almost missed his response in the thoughts echoing in her head. “It’s up to you to decide that.”

“But what if...what if I _ am _ that person? And what if I always have been?” Her complacency, her cruelty, her hypocrisy—she couldn’t claim that none of that had affected her choice, her decision. None of that was _ new. _

“Have you heard the story of Saint Dismas?” he asked suddenly, and something in Chloe thought, _ Of course. _ But she had come to a church for a reason, even if she didn’t know exactly what that reason was.

“I haven’t,” she said as evenly as she could manage.

He hummed. “The gospels tell us Christ was crucified with two thieves on either side of him. But Luke tells us that while one mocked him and commanded him to prove his divinity, the other rebuked his fellow, accepting his punishment as right for his crimes.”

“Right...?”

“The first,” he said, “descended to Hell while the second joined Christ in paradise.”

“So you’re saying I should accept my punishment?”

The priest hummed again. “Do you want to be punished?”

“I...” She took a deep breath.

He continued, “You know, we can take many lessons from this, but the one I hold most strongly is that it’s never too late to repent. Not to God, not to society, but to ourselves. The penitent thief shows us that earthly punishment does not cleanse guilt, nor does it replace our own desire to be better. After all, both thieves were crucified, but only one attained paradise because his last act was one of acceptance not condemnation.”

Was she truly penitent? She’d told Lucifer she didn’t regret what she’d done, had told _ herself _ she didn’t regret what she’d done. Had that been a lie all along? “The other thief, the one who…?”

“Mocked Christ? Demanded he prove himself?”

“Yeah.” She frowned. “You believe he went to Hell? You believe there _ is _ a Hell?” _ Hell, _ Lucifer had said he came from. _ Hell, _ Maze had said she was born in.

He nodded; she could see the light shift through the barrier. “I do.”

“So you believe in the Devil?”

The priest sighed, and there was a weariness there that made her, in that moment, want to believe everything he said. “Do I believe he fell from Heaven as lightning? That he was the serpent in the garden? That he whispers his temptation in our ears until we are deceived and damned both? I… don’t know.”

She hummed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a priest say that.”

He chuckled a little self-deprecating. “Well, the previous priest here—”

“Father Frank?” Tears pricked at her eyes, and she wiped them away roughly.

“Oh, you knew him?”

“Only a bit,” she said, unable to say more.

“Well, if you knew him at all, I’m sure you noticed he had some somewhat unorthodox views, especially regarding the Devil.”

She saw Frank sitting in Lux, nodding his head to the music, watched as he and Lucifer played piano together, her partner’s reticence melting away. Watched Frank as he died on the floor of his church, Lucifer trying to keep him together with nothing but his hands.

_ He gave up on me a long time ago. _

_ You're wrong, Lucifer. Remember, your father has a plan. _

_ My father? You know? _

“Yeah,” Chloe choked out. “Yeah, he did.”

“So do I believe the Devil exists? Maybe. Maybe he’s just the name we give that voice in our head that tells us to be selfish and cruel. Or maybe it’s like Luke’s crucified thieves, and it’s up to us to accept our punishment and hope that the wages of our penance is enough.”

They sat in silence for a moment, but then Chloe stood. “Thanks,” she told the priest. “I think I know what I need to do now.”

As she walked back to her car, she tightened her hands into fists, fingernails cutting into her palms. She had to be brave. She had to be like Saint Dismas. Only by having faith and accepting her punishment could she avoid the guilt that was dragging her down to Hell.

* * *

Chloe had never found Lux’s height and grandeur intimidating before. After all, she grew up in L.A., spent her childhood in fancy houses in the hills. But no other tower had the Devil at the top. She stepped into the elevator at the level of the parking garage and hit the button for the penthouse, and though she knew she was rising, it felt more like falling. Like with every floor upward she was descending deeper into Hell. And there, at the bottom, she would find him.

Some logical part of her brain still wasn’t sure, but the agony of guilt was so strong she had to have faith that something could alleviate it. She remembered Jimmy Barnes again. _ He’s the Devil. He’s the Devil. _ Remembered Perry Smith. _ Oh Jesus, oh God… _

The elevator door dinged open.

“I’m not in the mood, whoever you are,” Lucifer said from over on one of his Italian leather sofas. He was dressed in some sort of satiny robe and holding a glass of scotch as he pulled himself up only to freeze halfway off the couch. “D-detective?”

“Lucifer,” Chloe said, almost believing her own calmness.

He blinked, standing up the rest of the way, slowly stepping closer. “I, uh, must admit I wasn’t expecting to ever see you again.”

Something shattered under her ribs, and her shock that there was anything left to break was even stronger than the pain.

When she didn’t speak, he continued, voice lowered in something like kindness. “I’m very glad you’ve come, though. I-I don’t… I never meant to hurt you.”

She took a deep breath. “I know.”

A smile broke over his face, only for his expression to fall again. “Listen, I think—”

"Show me,” she said, her boots thudding against the marble as she met him near his piano. If she waited any longer, she might lose her nerve.

He blinked again. “What?”

She grabbed his face even as he flinched away. “I need you to show me. What Smith saw. What Barnes saw.”

“Detective, I don’t—”

“I have to see it.”

He reached up, and his fingers brushed against her still bruised knuckles, but he didn’t pull her hand away. “Why would you ask me for that?”

“Because...” She exhaled slowly. “I deserve it.”

“No,” he said, an automatic denial.

“I wanted Smith to suffer. I _ wanted _ everything that happened to him.”

“Det… _ Chloe, _ that doesn’t mean—“

But she was shaking her head. “No, n-n-no… It’s your _ job, _ didn’t you say? Punishing? So _ punish me!” _

She knew he wanted to refute her words, but he didn’t lie. _ And maybe he really didn’t. _

“’Every killer must be punished.’ Smith is dead because of me.”

_ ”You _ didn’t touch him, Detective,” Lucifer said softly.

Her breath hitched. “Just because I didn’t hold the knife doesn’t mean it’s not my fault.”

A haunted look crossed his face. He buried it and pulled out of her grasp. He drained his glass, heading to the bar. It felt like a dismissal, but she couldn’t leave. Not until she was crucified on a cross of her own guilt and finally freed from this torment. She dug deep, dredging up every unkind, uncharitable thing that had passed through her head since meeting him. Every one of his flaws displayed for all to see—his unrepentant narcissism, his casual cruelty, his social stumbles.

“You hurt people, and you enjoy it.”

He hissed, dropping his glass heavily to the bar. “It was my purpose.”

“Yeah,” she admitted, letting poison drip from her tone, “but you like it. You _ like _ hurting people, even when they don’t deserve it. And who are _ you _ to decide who deserves punishment anyway?”

“I’m the Devil,” he said flatly, turning to glare at her.

She nodded. “Then prove it.”

But he shook his head. “No.” He made to turn back around, and she was losing him, was losing her only chance at true repentance. So she let loose her tongue and all the bitter things waiting there.

“Last night… you said you wouldn’t judge, but then you left.”

He frowned. “Yes, but not—“

“I know you want...” But she couldn’t continue. Could only breathe, way too fast. Could only feel her heart beating frantically in her chest.

He was shaking his head. “Not like that. You were distraught. I wouldn’t—“ He inhaled sharply. “I wouldn’t take advantage of you like that.”

“Why not?” Her hands were shaking.

His frown deepened. “What?”

She bit her lip. She knew this might destroy their relationship, and the pain of that cut into that place under her ribs, tore at all the softness she had left. But she had to be punished; she _ had _to see. “You can make people tell you things.”

Something flashed in the depths of his eyes. _ ”Detective,” _ he warned.

“You can make people _ do _things. All those people who come into your club, who you bring up here—”

“_ Stop _.”

Everything inside her was screaming to do what he said, that the venom in these words could never be taken back. But she had to see; she had to make him show her. “You _ make _ them do things.”

“I do not!”

She gritted her teeth and added, “Things they’d otherwise _ never—“ _

He snarled, and it was not a human sound. His hands were clenched against the bar, his knuckles pale with tension. She was close. She only needed one final push.

“It’s _ sick, _ what you do to them. What you’ve done to _ me.” _

“Detective,” he whispered harshly. _ ”Leave,” _

She steeled herself again, pushed down everything but the need to be punished, to be purged of this guilt that was eating her alive. “Make me.”

It started in the irises, red and terrible, flames licking over the sclera, scorching it black. The skin peeled from his face as he and Maze had done to Smith, revealing raw muscle that cracked and burned with hellfire. This was what she asked for; this was what she would get.

Somewhere, someone was screaming.

All her sins were laid bare before her, in each inch of ravaged, flayed flesh, in every flash of something in his eyes that brought back a memory.

Smith, yes, in visceral detail, everything recovered, so vivid as to be clearer than hallucination, even the smell of burning hair and the cloyingness of so much blood returned to her. But other things too. Every time she let him get his hands dirty while hers stayed clean. Every time she felt superior when she knew, deep down, she would gladly do the same. Every time she was cruel simply because it made her feel better. 

The memories came at her in waves of smoke and brimstone, every justification stripped away, every lie she told herself burnt into ash. 

She finally understood what Smith saw, what Barnes saw—not the torments of Hell that awaited them, though those, too, lurked in the depths of Lucifer’s endless, impossible gaze. No, in the wounds twisting into his flesh she saw her own mortification. She saw the long road that led only into darkness, and she saw how she herself had paved it.

When she was brought back to the present, forced into the flesh that itched and crawled as every cruelty she’d ever inflicted clawed at the inside of her skin trying desperately to escape, she found herself on her knees, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she chanted, she panted, she _ howled. _

But her words were echoed above her. “I-I’m so sorry, Detective. Chloe, I...I didn’t mean to— I _ didn’t!” _

She fell to her hands, heaving, barely managing to take in breaths as her words got louder and louder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _ I’m sorry!” _

“Y-you were trying to goad me into it, and I...” Her hearing was fuzzing in and out. “Never meant... only hurt…”

She lost his voice, then, pressing her forehead against the cool marble floor, cursing herself for the comfort she felt from it.

_ Thud, thud, thud, _ went the footsteps, and the elevator doors shut with a quiet, empty _ whoosh. _

And she was alone with all her sins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three will be posted hopefully soon.


End file.
